in the midst, changing
by queen-sheep
Summary: Neville thought, oh. He was in love with his teacher.


_QLFC S3 - Round 10_

 _WARNING: unrequited!neville/minerva. If that's triggering/puts you off, please don't read._

* * *

The room is too cramped to fit all twenty something of them, but they manage anyway, squeezed too tight around the round table in the middle. Hannah's elbow keeps poking him in the stomach whenever she laughs, and Dean has a tendency to gesture when he talks so Neville is on constant alert in order to avoid his face from being struck. It's not the reunion he'd always imagined, but now that he's here he can't think of any place he'd rather be.

"Next one!" Ron yells above the increasingly noisy din. "Who's got a question?"

"I do!" Ginny says with a wicked smile to the collective groans of the audience.

"Your questions are the worst!" someone complains from across her. She sticks out her tongue at them and doesn't bother answering, scanning the crowd for her next victim. Her eyes catch Neville's, and she grins. As she stands and strides over, Neville can't help but brace himself for the next question in this strange but fun muggle game Hermione brought up. Paranoia, he thinks it's called.

Hannah leans back to give Ginny room, and she cups her hands around his ears to whisper her question.

"Okay, done," she announces. "It's not even that bad, I promise."

She returns to her seat and then all eyes are on Neville and his response. He coughs, and turns beet red.

"Professor McGonagall," is all that he says, and Ginny's jaw drops.

"Really?" she asks, incredulous. He nods. Seamus swivels, curiosity piqued, and starts bugging him about it.

"I'm assuming the question isn't something like 'Who's your favorite teacher', then?" Hermione guesses. She narrows her eyes in his direction, but he gazes determinedly at the ceiling.

"Let's just flip the coin. Luna?" Harry asks, turning in her direction.

The girl is already ready, and they all watch the coin fall into her palm. Luna slowly lifts her left hand off it, and peers down. She smiles.

"Heads," she says.

The room explodes in cheers. Neville buries his head into his hands and groans, already feeling mortified.

"C'mon mate, what was the question?" Ron asks, leaning forwards.

"Who was your first love," Neville mumbles.

"No way," Dean breathes, shocked. "You're freaking kidding."

Neville shakes his head. "I'm not actually. But actually, there's a good reason," he insists.

"Am I sensing storytime?" Parvati asks, leaning forward. "Because I really want to hear this."

There's a wave of consensus around the room and all eyes turn to look at him. Neville bites his lip and looks around.

Eventually, he sighs and says, "Well, alright then. It began..."

* * *

… with that dreaded matchstick. Already, the majority of the class had caught up to the quick learners like Hermione and Draco. They could switch between matchstick to needle with a swish of their wand and a little concentration, and Neville was still unable to change his to anything more than a silvery sheen. He was always lagging behind everyone in everything, and he was angry and upset mortified about his lack of skill. He wasn't ever going to be anything more than an almost-squib, even though he was a pureblood wizard!

With a frustrated huff of breath, he buried his face on his desk, taking shuddering breaths. His face felt entirely too warm and his eyelashes were starting to stick together. The rest of the class piled out for lunch, either unaware or uncaring.

A hand landed carefully on his shoulder. "You alright mate?" Ron asked, concern in his voice. Neville shook his head, his breaths shortening as he tried hard not to cry.

"Do you want us to stay with you?" he asked again. 'Us' meaning him, Harry, and Hermione he assumed. Neville shook his head again, sniffling.

"Let's give him some space," he heard Harry murmur, and the hand and their presences disappeared altogether.

The classroom without all its students felt hollow and empty. Neville took several short breaths and gulped down the rest of his tears. His face felt raw and exposed and he'd never felt more miserable in his life.

Looking up, he caught sight of Professor McGonagall, arranging her papers in complete silence. Neville jumped, his chair scraping loudly against the stone tiles, but she didn't even flinch at the noise. Instead, she calmly looked up, tucked a stray gray hair behind her ear, and fixed him with a measured stare.

"I-I-I-I'm sorry, professor," Neville managed to stammer out, feeling absolutely terrified. McGonagall had a reputation for being scary and strict, and he was absolutely sure that she was going to send him to detention or give him a stern talking to for breaking down in her classroom.

"Whatever are you sorry for?" she asked, looking puzzled.

Neville was equally as confused. "I'm... I can't transfigure this matchstick into a needle, even though everyone else can."

She smiled, not unkindly, at him. "That's no reason to be sorry," she said. "Let's see if I can help."

She gathered her robes and slide into the desk next to him. Neville couldn't help but edge away, still looking at her in wide-eyed terror.

"I— uh, what should I do?" Neville squeaked out.

"Try the spell again," Professor McGonagall said promptly. "I'll point out anything you can improve on, or what you're doing wrong."

Hesitantly, Neville pulled out his wand and made all the necessary wand movements. Instantly, her hand shot out and shifted the stick somewhat to the left.

"When you're doing the movements, make the curve sharper," she said. Neville did so, and brightened.

"It's gotten pointier!" he exclaimed.

She smiled at him. "That's it, just keep going. You might not be as talented as, say, Granger, but you can catch up with hard work. I believe that," she said firmly, looking him right in the eye.

Neville felt his breath catch at the words. He felt them surround him, wrap him, warm his entire being because here was a person who believed he could do it. Here was a person who didn't look at him with pity or contempt.

He could do it.

* * *

"That's so sweet," Parvati says, smiling encouragingly at him. Neville rubs the back of his neck, more than slightly embarrassed at the story.

"You fell in love with McGonagall because she tutored you in Transfiguration?" Ron asks, dubious. "Didn't Snape also tell you to stay behind for extra practice in Potions?"

"Well, that wasn't the only reason," Neville says, smiling bashfully. "That was the start of it though, and it was only admiration at the beginning."

"Well, continue then! What happened next?" Dean asks, grinning.

Neville smiles at his attentive audience and begins to speak again. "It just...

* * *

...spiralled from there. The tutoring sessions became regular thing after that, something he looked forward to with increasing excitement.

Admiration, he told himself.

Admiration, he told his rapidly beating heart, his sweating palms, his shy smile.

Admiration, he said all the way until the end of first year and second year and third; all throughout the summer where every thought would inevitably drift to his kind teacher and her warm hands.

"Have you gotten your hands on a nice girl yet?" his great uncle asked with a lewd grin during a family gathering before the start of his fourth year. Neville shifted away, uncomfortable.

"Oh, stop it," his cousin, Lilith, snapped. She faced him. "Don't listen to a word that crass old man says."

Neville nodded meekly.

She looked furtively around before leaning down to whisper, "But have you fallen in love with anyone yet?"

"Love?" Neville asked.

She grinned and nodded. "You'll know it when you feel it. Butterflies, blushing, all that good stuff. You'll want to be beside that person for all of eternity, even if you want to tear their hair out sometimes."

Neville thought, _oh._

He was in love with his teacher.

It took him four months and three days to build up enough courage to ask Professor McGonagall to a dance during the Yule Ball. It was four months filled with numerous trips to the Madame Pomfrey for calming droughts. Four months of lower than usual performance and constant nausea, but he did it in the end. With an astonished expression, she accepted, and for the short duration of one song, he was twirling around and stepping on the toes of his first love.

"I am so sorry, professor!" Neville dithered nervously, she chuckled at him.

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Longbottom, I've endured far worse than this," she said.

Still, he felt bad and after the last notes of the song hum through the air, he let go of her waist and slunk away.

At least, he consoled himself, he had that.

* * *

"Is that it?" Parvati demands.

Neville smiles wryly. "She's almost four decades older than me, and she's a widow too. It wasn't meant to be."

"Still," she sighs, ever the romantic.

"I don't regret it though," Neville says. "I loved Professor McGonagall, but now I have someone else."

Hannah smiles gently at him, curling her hand above his. He flips his hand over and interlaces their fingers together.

"So who's up for the next question?" he asks.


End file.
